Cynosure Confidential: Top Secret
by TobyKikami
Summary: A collection of 'rated M' short fics and drabbles wherein various gods of Toril deal with their worshippers, each other, and themselves. The latest: Shevarash and Selvetarm, 'Seeing Through Spider Kisses.'
1. Hoar and Sharess and Shevarash: Triad

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is pretty much the same as just plain "Cynosure Confidential," with the crucial difference of containing fics with a higher rating. I thought it would be best to give these their own series, so as not to drag up the rating on the original.

Again, the Realms aren't mine.

And now to start off this new venture in the grand tradition of the original, with yet another Shevarash fic.

* * *

**Triad**

(Set some time before the Time of Troubles, somewhat crackish, semi-slash, threesome, implied sex)

* * *

Sharess's voice rises. "_Elikarashae_ –"

"Zandilar," Shevarash breathes in reply, and in that moment he doesn't sound nearly so much like the scarred mortalborn he is. He makes up for it in the next breath when he says, "What he did to you, how could he do that to you –"

"What?" says Sharess. "What did who do to me?" Hoar, listening from his position at Shevarash's back, can't tell if she's really forgotten or if she just wants Shevarash to shut up and get on with it.

If the latter, it doesn't work very well, because Shevarash keeps talking. "The drow, the thief." The one Hoar has sometimes glimpsed slipping in and out of Shar's domain, sometimes just shy of Shevarash himself. "He defiled you –"

"He did?" says Sharess. "Oh yes, he tried to kill me, didn't he? Kill Zandilar, that is?" Hoar thinks he sees her move her hands on Shevarash's chest. He moves his own hands on Shevarash's back, though he entirely lacks her level of expertise and soon his motions start to spell out _Ramman must die _in the language of Chessenta.

At any rate, neither of them distracts Shevarash. "He made you bear his spiderspawn –"

"Did he now? Funny, you'd think I'd remember something like _that_."

The twins Selune and Shar may be two sides of a coin, thinks Hoar, but Shar herself is a coin of sorts. With one hand she brings forgetting, and with her other she brings long memories, though Hoar is not sure Shevarash needs a longer one.

"_I _remember it," Shevarash is saying now. "_I _remember even if you don't –"

Sharess tumbles over Shevarash, interposing herself between him and Hoar and leaving Hoar's hands poised just barely against her skin, in the middle of tracing Ramman's detested name once more. She puts her lips to the side of Hoar's face, just before his ear, and mouths against his skin, "Why don't _you _give it a try now?"

Hoar gives it a try. Sharess shudders and murmurs; she seems suddenly frail in his arms. There are gods worse off than he is; he only truly realizes this now. He draws away without realizing it, and she yanks him back with sudden strength in her limbs.

"You're too thin," she says as she pushes him to his back and presses one hand to his cheekbone. She tightens her other hand's grip on his wrist for emphasis, rubbing her thumb against the bone. "You worry too much." Then she's on him, and from the lightning campaign she wages he can see how at least part of her was once Anhur's lieutenant.

"Go on," she's saying a good bit later. Hoar can only blink dumbly at her until she pulls him up. She kisses him again with such force that he almost thinks she will rip his tongue from his mouth and into hers. "At least _you _can smile," she says. "Go on. Give that silly vow of his a proper challenge, why don't you."

Shevarash sits on the opposite side of the bed, cross-legged and half-dressed, eyes unfocused; perhaps Sharess's doings have knocked them out of alignment. He looks past Hoar to Sharess and his eyes focus somewhat. "He has to _pay_," he says.

"But of course," says Hoar, making his way across the sheets.

"He can't get away with it. All of them, skulking in the deep. I wouldn't do that to you, never, no true elf would, those drow, those traitors, they can't be allow–"

Hoar lunges. It is not in the same class as Sharess's pounce, but it serves its purpose, and once Hoar's tongue is down his throat Shevarash stops talking, and Hoar reaches around and continues tracing out _Ramman must die_, which perhaps is not quite in the spirit of things, but it gets a sigh from Shevarash which Hoar feels in his own mouth.

"Yes, yes," says Sharess; she's come around behind Shevarash and starts reaching around from her side. "Well, now I remember he paid for it all right. I made sure of that. It was absolutely poetic." She winks at Hoar over his shoulder.

Shevarash lets out another low sigh and extricates his mouth. "Did you really?"

"Oh yes." She nods, her head positioned so that her chin bumps Shevarash's shoulder with each downward movement. Some of her hair has fallen in her face and her eyes blaze from behind it. "He won't be inconveniencing any other goddesses anytime soon. He won't even inconvenience his own hand. Not before Cania melts."

Hoar chuckles. Shevarash sucks in a breath and says, "You didn't really do that?"

"Well, no," says Sharess, "but it's fun to think of, isn't it? In hindsight and that? _You_ think so," she addresses Hoar, "don't you?"

"Yes," says Hoar.

"There, you see?"

"That would be… poetic justice, yes," says Shevarash, positively squirming. "If it happened. My lady, I don't believe I should be here."

"_Really _now." Sharess embraces him from behind, Hoar from the front. "That's why I _asked _you here. No tears now. Let me take care of your suffering." This, Hoar remembers, is much what she told him at the start of their encounter. Then, with another wink, she'd called Hoar evenhanded. "You fret too much." Then they're all falling back onto the sheets, proceeding without further interruption.

Shevarash takes his leave some time afterward, muttering about impending raiders. Hoar almost wishes him good luck, but then he remembers his own opinion of Tymora and gives Shevarash another quick kiss instead. Shevarash stumbles out of the room, throwing his clothes back on as he goes. He looks like he's had a sudden amputation instead of having sex – but then, Hoar can't think of any expression of satisfaction that would not involve that forbidden curve of the lip.

Sharess sighs and draws Hoar back to her again. At the thought of yet another go so soon, however pleasurable the experience, he has the urge to flee after Shevarash. Instead Sharess sighs and leans against him. "I can't believe it," she says. "Tired already." He can tell it's not a complaint about him. He embraces her with one arm and she leans further back, pressing her head against his chest.

"He's a lovely boy," she says. "Pity about that vow."

"Yes."

"I do wish he wouldn't talk about that," she says. "That kind of talk always makes me tired. Oh hello, my lady."

Hoar looks up and nods to Shar in acknowledgement as she continues to stand in the doorway. His free hand searches for a covering, but there are no blankets on the bed and Sharess does not seem to care. Anyway, Shar could have been watching her three allies the entire time they were in her domain.

He starts chuckling at that thought, and from what he can see of Shar's face she seems to understand completely.


	2. Mask and Vhaeraun: As Equals

**As Equals**

(Semi-slash, implied sex, language. Set after War of the Spider Queen and before Twilight War and Lady Penitent, no overt spoilers for the latter and perhaps a few for the former. Some spoilers for the Avatar Series)

_The typical avatar of Mask appears as a slightly built human male… Though some sages believe that to be his true or chosen form, he may also appear as a soft-spoken human female… In public, Mask's form is ever-changing…_

- On Mask, _Faiths and Pantheons_

* * *

They are both silent at first. Their limbs tangle, a varying hue against a constant black backdrop, with not a peep to be heard. Mask thinks that perhaps they are overused to stealth in their mutual line of work, or maybe it's simple pride, and whatever it is he decides to take it as a challenge. He reaches out and his fingers move like they're picking locks, disarming what traps may lie invisible on the black skin; yes, he thinks, the job's getting to him. But Vhaeraun's breath hitches and Vhaeraun's remaining five fingers clench on Mask's shoulder and Mask works his way down the other god's body, leaving no secrets in his wake.

After a while of this, after Mask has extracted several gasps and a low groan from him, Vhaeraun pushes Mask's hands away, reaching past them with his own. He's not half bad, Mask thinks, especially given he only has the one to work with. He makes good use of that one hand, though there is no way he will ever ferret out Mask's secrets.

Speaking of which, Mask is overdue for a change by now, and he's got an idea as to what that change will be. He puts a bit more thought into it as he reaches over again. He feels his flesh writhe and reshape until he is not him any longer, and then she smiles at Vhaeraun, whose face freezes.

Shit. She'd a woman in mind, but now she perceives that it is too specific a woman – too specific a facsimile of a goddess – and as Mask perceives this she switches to the familiar avatar. Her skin is no longer sun-bronzed but luminous pale, her hair still dark but now so long as to pass for a rolled-out bolt of black silk, her cat-slit green eyes gone starry white, and there is but a flash of red in Vhaeraun's own eyes. Then it's all blue and Mask winks, deciding it's best to pass it off as a joke albeit something of an unfortunate one. She might have apologized, honestly enough, but she isn't sure she remembers how (_AhmyloveIwasafooltobetrayyou – _but that doesn't count).

In any case the rhythm is broken. They lie there a while, silent again. Then, "You do that _once_," Vhaeraun whispers, "and they talk of it forever."

"Oh yes," says Mask, though in her case most of them look to Cyric instead, which is fine with her.

Vhaeraun picks up a few strands and rolls them with his fingers. "Damn it's long."

"Yes," says Mask. "Is that a problem?"

Vhaeraun yanks the strands. Mask lets them loose from her scalp and they dissipate a breath later. "Get it out of the way."

"If you like," says Mask, and with a thought her hair is to the nape of her neck. She supposes such long hair might remind him of his sister, and that could kill the mood.

They go on for another stretch, Mask keeping to the basic form. Then Vhaeraun pauses again and rests one finger on Mask's eyelid. "Do green again, will you?"

Mask considers. "If you'll do the same for me."

Vhaeraun frowns. Not a trace of green there. "Very funny."

To humor him Mask makes her eyes green again, but not cat-slit. It _was _unfair to ask it of Vhaeraun, who is as solid as Brandobaris if not more so; while even in his "true form" Erevan Ilesere flits from one type of elf to another (ah, and _there's _a thought), Vhaeraun is always drow, and even the color of his hair and eyes is out of his direct control. Vhaeraun is not a great one for change, except in the one direction. Mask makes the high low, the low high; in bringing herself so low as of late she can at least say she put her missing leg where her mouth is. Vhaeraun, the prince in exile, seeks to find the greatest height and stay there forever, stay forever golden.

Vhaeraun's eyes and hair are not gold now, but they _are _green as Mask takes to her new idea and starts changing again. Mask's ears elongate, and Vhaeraun's eyebrow lifts.

"Is something wrong?"

"Would you _quit_ that?"

"Oh _dear_," says Mask as she keeps on going, giving herself a light slap on the forehead just before she stops being her. "No, no, don't tell me. Let me guess. Father issues?"

Vhaeraun snorts.

"Thought so."

"And I was about to ask if you wanted to be Diancastra now."

"No, not now." Though the image of being the giantess for this assignation amuses him somewhat. For his current undertaking there is no one image for him to refer to, and too exact an image would probably not be welcomed, so instead he tries to catch the core that Erevan constantly flits around, the perpetual green. From the look that flits across Vhaeraun's face as he finishes, he's caught it well enough.

He flashes the Fey Jester's grin for about the same time as Vhaeraun wore that look before returning to the usual smirk. "Is this better, Your Highness?" Mask would throw in a kowtow, but their position is not conducive to one and in any case Vhaeraun would probably think he's being mocked. The fact that he _is_ being mocked, to some degree, won't help. "Your Highness" is already pushing it, but it's part of the persona so it can probably get by.

"_Much _better," says Vhaeraun, and really gets to it.

Mask finds himself staying with the shape for the rest of their encounter. He suspects that what Vhaeraun really wants to fuck is his own reflection, but if he tried giving him that – again, Vhaeraun would suspect, would likely take offense, get haughty on him, and his purpose right now is not to offend. Vhaeraun is used to the little mockeries, Mask being an equal-opportunity mocker even when he doesn't quite mean to be, but that would push it. And Vhaeraun seems pleased enough with this, with acting as though he is unraveling Mask with his efforts. Mask wonders – if he somehow caught hold, dug in his fingers and started peeling it all away quicker than Mask could rebuild it, like a child stripping the layers off an onion, would he find anything in the core?

But Vhaeraun doesn't catch hold let alone dig in his fingers any further than into Mask's skin; he can't do it any more than Mask ever caught hold of Leira. Mask breaks silence at the right time to make him think he's gotten through to something, and afterward subtly increases his noises and the movement of his limbs at the right intervals to keep Vhaeraun working away on the surface of things. At the same time, Mask works back; Vhaeraun ends up making just as much noise as Mask, but he doesn't seem to notice. Mask wonders then – is he catching hold of Vhaeraun? Who knows what secrets besides Ellaniath the Nightsinger slipped him? Perhaps the prince has picked up his own tricks in his years in exile. Mask has miscalculated before, Ao knows, with Kesson Rel and Cyric and the others…

He comes back to himself to enjoy the results of his efforts. Vhaeraun finishes shortly afterward. Mask lowers his leg and Vhaeraun collapses atop him. They keep lying there. Silence settles in once more, growing harder to break by the heartbeat.

Vhaeraun says, "What was it you wanted?"

Mask trails one hand down his back. "What do you think?"

"Let me rephrase. What is it you want?"

"That is a tricky question and one entirely unsuited to our current situation. You will forgive me if I take some time in replying?"

His eyes are a mixture of blue and green; whatever he takes it into his head to do, then, it will not be out of pique unless Mask missteps horrifically. This last is not out of the realm of possibility. "Do you know what I did to the last one who thought I should pay for the privilege?"

Mask has to laugh. "If this is your idea of pillow talk, small wonder everyone else'll talk of it forever."

Judging from his answering smile, Vhaeraun understands the reference. "Are you distributing charity, then? Spreading goodwill throughout the planes?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact," says Mask. "Consider it charity for a poor wretch who's not been laid since that mess with Leira." It's not as though he _missed _that so much, but the exact wording is true enough (except, he likes to think, the "poor wretch" bit) and it is a pleasant thing to have again. The mess with Cyric does not count. "I don't know if you have been nearly as unlucky for lo these thousands of years since your own fine mess, but I thought it was worth a try."

"Oh dear," says Vhaeraun, easing himself up. "Poor wretch indeed."

"Indeed," says Mask. "But we can deal with one another as equals, can't we? Seeing as we are, now." He plants his elbows to sit up himself.

Vhaeraun has not touched Mask with his bandaged wrist. Now he does, touching it to the place which looks not like a stump, but like a place where a leg never got round to growing. "Equals," he says like he's tasting it, and his eyes are lowered to the contact point but his hair is growing bluer. "Not for long."

"But of course." Of course not for long. Vhaeraun will regenerate it surely, eventually; Mask is hard put to imagine him pulling a Gruumsh and insisting there was never a hand there in the first place, not with its importance to his work. On the other side of the scale, on another balance entirely, there are among other things Mask's current interests in Sembia to consider.

Not for long. But for now…

Mask sits up somewhat, bringing their bodies back together, and decides talk of Shar and Sembia can wait a while longer.


	3. Shevarash and Selvetarm: Spider Kisses

**Seeing Through Spider Kisses**

(Spoilers for the first two books of the Lady Penitent trilogy, hatesex without the sex (hatekissing?), implied sex for one)

* * *

Shevarash thinks his problem has something to do with once being mortal, with those stray wisps irrelevant to his purpose, with the disconnects between his mind's knowledge and his body's instincts. He certainly can't imagine Corellon Larethian dreaming of the Spider Queen and waking from Reverie with an ache between the legs. Of course, Shevarash couldn't have imagined _himself _waking up like that from dreaming of the Spider Queen's grandson before he actually did, but he finds it healthful for his sanity not to pursue that line of speculation any further.

His problem could also have something to do with Zandilar. He doesn't _blame _her. She couldn't have had an inkling this would happen. But there is – was – far too much of her in her son's appearance, enough of it to be seen even through the obvious indications of her son's father. The father's blood will tell, Shevarash knows, and it _has _told, but Zandilar's blood is a disturbing addition. She is, or was, a goddess who inspired the most intense of passions – at least, the most intense of bedding passions. He never knew her but he's fair certain Elikarashae did, and he thinks what he carries of Elikarashae stirs in these times. And Shevarash has gathered that Vhaeraun was considered quite charming prior to his exposure and expulsion from Arvandor; he is still fairly charming to the unwary, the uninformed (though precious few of those by now).

And then, Shevarash thinks, part of his problem could be Selvetarm's kiss.

* * *

"Repay rudeness with kindness," Selvetarm mutters. "Rudeness with kindness, rudeness with kindness."

Shevarash scoffs. Selvetarm's mace comes within an inch of caving in Shevarash's ribs.

Later, Shevarash won't remember quite what plane it happened on. Not Arvandor (since he's proven right in the end), nor the Abyss (since he hasn't been proven right just yet). What he's sure of is Selvetarm did not have so much of spiders in him, or wasn't showing it, so in this scene he wears a simple mockery of an elven body, as worn by any drow. This, too, heightens Shevarash's problem.  His own body, after all, is not so addled as to lust after a giant spider or a drider.

But in this scene Shevarash's immediate problem is the angry godling. He parries and ripostes with his sword Traitorbane, thinking of what he will tell Eilistraee when next they happen to meet. Of course she will continue to refuse to believe that her pet project foams at the mouth, but Shevarash has to say it.

He thinks too deeply. "_Look at me!" _Selvetarm yells, and in a twinkling he's used his own sword to hook Traitorbane from Shevarash's hands.

Heartbeats later, both of them are weaponless and in a tangle on the ground. Shevarash gains gradually, while Selvetarm flails and scratches and curses him through all the layers of the Abyss and out the other side. Perhaps Shevarash has won at this point. All of sudden, Selvetarm stops moving, stops shouting. Shevarash, startled, tightens his hold.

Selvetarm hisses. "You don't even see me."

"I see you," says Shevarash. Selvetarm has been growing out his hair since Eilistraee approached him. Shevarash sees it worked loose of his braid every which way in a bone-white broken parody of a halo, sees the black skin slick with sweat, the red eyes narrowed.

"Liar," says Selvetarm. "You see _him_." Shevarash shifts position. "Why you?" Selvetarm shifts correspondingly, keeping eye contact. "Five of mine were ambushed in the Yuir. They took out most of your ten, but your priest kept the fifth hanging from a tree for a day and night before opening his throat." He lifts his head somewhat. "I turned his blood to blades as it spilled. _Yours _didn't suffer long."

Shevarash shoves hard. Selvetarm pushes back and spits venom into his eye. It is not strong – stronger than that of the myrlochar that once bit out Shevarash's life, but not strong enough to kill or even blind a god. Shevarash is still distracted enough so that he goes tumbling in the ensuing scuffle.

They separate eventually, scramble to their feet, and back away, eying each other. Shevarash thinks there is a sword lying just behind him, but is not sure he can afford to turn even for a second.

"You're no better than me. No better than any of them. _Nobody _sees me," Selvetarm hisses, his empty hands opening and closing. "Nobody but Aunt. _I _never wronged them. I never wronged any of you. It was all over by the time I could've done anything. Aunt Eilistraee says she's there for ones like me, and I'm supposed to repay ones like you with kindness. There's one saying of hers I still can't see. I can't see when they'd ever let either of us back when there's you and yours around."

Shevarash edges backward, trying to work around the weapon so he won't have to turn his back to Selvetarm to snatch it up.

"Repay rudeness with kindness? I could do that if you'd just be that to _me_. Violence with swift violence, at least there's that." He tips his head to one side, loose hair hanging down, momentarily calmer. "I'd like to like you. You're almost as good at this as Aunt…" He seems to remember then that he is angry. "But I can't answer for my father! Come to think of it, I can't answer for yours!"

For the past few thousand years Shevarash's father has resided as a petitioner in the place in Arvandor he earned for his faith. He is quite content, and to ensure this happy state of affairs continues he barely remembers his youngest son, only knows that the boy survived that Midwinter night.

Shevarash steps back and kicks at Traitorbane, flipping it into his hand, but by the time his hand closes Selvetarm is already too close, Selvetarm's hands pressed on his shoulders, Selvetarm's mouth on his.

Shevarash stands absolutely still, his sword extended just clear of Selvetarm's arm. Selvetarm leans closer, probably on his toes (he has always tended to the short, short as they say his grandmother was, while Shevarash retains his height from his mortal days), and sets about doing things with his tongue.

Later Shevarash will berate himself for not bringing back his sword and driving it through the drow god's body. Later Shevarash will wonder just how long it lasted; certainly not so long as the space it occupies in his memory. But in this moment Shevarash stands there. At least, he will reassure himself, he kept his grip on his sword. At least he didn't kiss back.

Shevarash is long unaccustomed to kisses, but from before that Midwinter he can vaguely recall several masterpieces of the gesture. Selvetarm's kiss follows those – perhaps follows them overmuch; for all its ferocity he often seems almost tentative, as though he is constantly consulting some extraordinarily detailed map. Later, Shevarash will think it might have been Zandilar's map, but he doesn't want to think about her giving it away, not to this one. Then Selvetarm pulls away, only to reposition himself at Shevarash's ear.

"Do you see me now?" he whispers. He settles back to flat on his feet, taking his hands away as Shevarash stands there. He grins at Shevarash as if he has proven something before turning around and gathering his sword and mace. Later, Shevarash will guess what Selvetarm thought he proved, but as for that he is sure that it was no kindness.

What Shevarash does not do is go after him and gut him. What Shevarash does not do is sink an arrow between his shoulder blades. What Shevarash does not do is say a word, or so much as twitch as the younger god walks away.

What Shevarash does, in the Year of Frostfires, is be proven right.

* * *

Shevarash opens his eyes and remembers all over again. Kiaransalee dead, Vhaeraun dead, Selvetarm dead, and he didn't lift a finger to end any of them. No, it was Selvetarm's Aunt Eilistraee who repays violence with swift violence, her and her followers, and he would laugh but for the obvious.

He's damp, rivulets of sweat down his face, and given minimal encouragement he'll be even damper. He wipes the sweat from his face and notes the odd smell of it before he gives himself another clean finish, biting the inside of his mouth.

Later he asks Shar if she can give him Reverie without dreams.


End file.
